Sister Vision

On Sunday afternoon, we gathered. Little squares on the screen—three faces with similar brown eyes, three lives, three versions of the same story. Immediately, we giggled at our common thread: Steph in her progressive red Peepers. Me in my signature horn-rims, Wendell in her work frames.

Just readers for most of us. Nothing too serious—in the 2.00+ range—mostly corrected over the counter or by the check-out line stash at TJ Maxx. Still we squint when we need to. Peer a little closer. Enlarge cell phone fonts. We make it work.

Fortunately, we didn’t inherit our mother’s compromised eyesight. Hers was profound.

And yet, in so many ways, our vision is better because of her.

Once when I was little, Mom and I were driving to Greensboro in her station wagon. She pointed it out so casually—a caterpillar, inching its way across the road. I remember looking, then looking again, amazed she had seen it at all. Something so small. So easy to miss. But not to her.

She was always looking out for furry creatures—our childhood fox terrier, her kitties, her grandpups.

And her grandchildren, she ADORED. It was one of the clearest ways we saw her.

Her keen vision expertly guided me when I was 18 and didn’t want to stay in college. She didn’t force clarity. She helped me find it.

And when her voice quieted in the face of ALS, her seeing only deepened. A softer gaze, maybe. A steadier one. As if, even without words, her way of looking at the world sharpened.

Ahead of Mother’s Day, many of us are learning how to see a world without moms. Others warmly embrace the sweet snuggles of new life. It seems the seasons of motherhood show us the way.

Maybe this is it. Not perfect vision, but practiced perspective.

The instinct to look again. To notice.

To hold one another in sight. To gently correct—and to ask for help for what we cannot see on our own.

Even now, I think of Mom when I catch something small others might miss. A detail. A shift. A quiet truth coming into focus. It might just be a sign. It might just be her— or perhaps a glimpse of her in each one of us—simply pointing it out.